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TS  ACTING  EDITION,  No.  2467 


fl        THE 

L  FOURTH  ACT 


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A  Play  in  One  Scene 
FOR    THREE    PEOPLE 

BY 

BASIL   MACDONALD   HASTINGS 


Good  lines  and  neat    situations— SUITED    TO    PRIVATE 
THEATRICALS,  where  it  should  do  well." 


PRICE    SIXPENCE     NET 

AMATEUR  FEE,  ONE  GUINEA  EACH  REPRESENTATION 


"Q 


A  Psychic  Pstory  of  the  Psupernatural 
IN    ONE    ACT 

by 

STEPHEN   LEACOCK 

and 

BASIL   MACDONALD   HASTINGS 

Originally    produced    at    the    COLISEUM,    London,    on 
November  29,  1915,  with  the  following  cast: — 

JACK  ANNERLY  .  .  .  Mr.  Charles  Hawtrty 
GEORGE  GNOOF  ....  Mr.  Miles  Malleson 
BLIGHT  .....  Mr.  E.  W.  Tarver 
DORA  DNIEPER  ....  Miss  Mono.  Harrison 

SCENE     -     A  sitting"  room 


One  Act, 
Price  6d. 


30  minutes 
in  represen- 
...  tation 

:•'":  Qhe  Scene. 

f  .\  -;  Fee, 

Quinea. 


"  That  rara  avis — a  really  funny  sketch  !  " — Town   Topics. 


THE    FOURTH    ACT 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  SCENE 


THE  FOURTH  ACT 


OPINIONS  OF  THE  CRITICS 

DAILY  MAIL. — "  There  is  always  a  distinctive  quality  of 
original  humour  to  be  found  in  a  play  credited  to  the 
pen  of  Mr.  B.  Macdonald  Hastings,  and  the  audience  was 
treated  to  amusing  dialogue  and  good  acting." 

OBSERVER. — •"  Characteristically  good  dialogue  and  telling 
lines." 

DAILY  MIRROR. — "  Very  amusing  and  very  witty." 

DAILY  TELEGRAPH. — 1"  The  theme  is  freshly  and  pleasantly 
handled." 

EVENING  STANDARD. — "  A  delightful  playlet." 

DAILY  CHRONICLE. — "  A  vivacious  satire  on  stage  heroics 
and  conventions  .  .  .  Capital  fun  .  .  ." 

THE  TIMES. — "  Good  lines  and  neat  situations.  SUITED  TO 
PRIVATE  THEATRICALS  where  it  should  do  well." 


THE    FOURTH   ACT 

A  PLAY  IN   ONE  SCENE 


By 
BASIL  MACDONALD  HASTINGS 


COPYRIGHT,   1916,  B\    SAMUEL  FRENCH,  LIMITED 

ENTERED  AT  THE  LIBRARY  OF  CONGRESS, 
WASHINGTON,  U.S.A. 


CAUTION. :->ROF£MIONAL  AND  AMATEURS  ARE  H£RCBY 

THAT  THJ&PIAYIS  FULLY  50PYaJGMTE.D  UNOCR  TXE  EXISTING  LAWS 
OF  THE  UNITED  6TAT£8,  AN'D  NO  ONE  18  ALLOWED  TO  PHOO'JCE 
THIS  Pt  AY  WlfKOUl  FIRST  HAVING  OeTAiN'ro  PCAMSSS.'ON  OF 
6AWU£L  FKLKOK,  28  W£ST  S^TV.  STRlir.  .N€W  YOAK  OTY,  U.  S.  A, 


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PUBLISHER 
28-30  WEST  38TH  STREET 


26,  r>ou<iHAMPTow  STREET 
STRAND 


o 


OTHER  PUBLISHED  PLAYS 
BY  BASIL  MAGDONALD  HASTINGS 

THE  NEW  SIN  (3  Acts). 

LOVE — AND  WHAT  THEN  ?    (4  Acts). 

THE  TIDE  (4  Acts). 

ADVERTISEMENT  (4  Acts). 

THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  HOUSE  (3  Acts,  with  Eden.  Phillpotts) 

Price  15.  net  paper  ;    25.  net  cloth  and 
Q  (i  Act,  with  Stephen  Leacock).     Price  6d. 


CHARACTERS 

SIR  PHILIP  A  COURCY. 

MR.   ROBERT  VALPAS — His  Secretary. 

Miss  DAPHNE  ALLOA. 


382618 


First    performed  at  the  London  Coliseum  July  17,  1916 
with  the  following  cast: — 

Miss  DAPHNE  ALLOA         .       .       .       Miss  Lillah  McCarthy. 
SIR  PHILIP  A  COURCY        .       .       ..       Mr.  Ben  Webster. 
MR.  ROBERT  VALPAS  ....       Mr.  Allan  Wade. 

The  play  produced  by  MR.  CHARLES  HAWTREY. 


THE  FOURTH  ACT 


SCENE. — Sir    Philip's    Study    in    Carlton    House 
Terrace. 

The  room  is  handsomely  furnished  and  carpeted.  In 
the  R.  wall,  slightly  up  stage,  is  a  large  window. 
The  door  is  in  the  back  wall,  slightly  to  L.  The 
whole  of  the  L.  wall  and  R.  half  of  the  back  wall  and 
the  lower  part  of  the  R.  wall  are  covered  by  books. 
Down  R.  is  a  small  set  of  steps  such  as  is  used  for 
getting  books  from  high  shelves.  In  the  centre  is  a  large 
writing-desk  with  revolving  chair.  There  is  another 
chair  to  L.  of  desk.  Below  the  desk  is  a  comfortable 
couch.  Close  to  the  L.  end  of  couch  is  a  small  smoker's 
table.  It  is  a  bright  summer  morning  and  the  sun 
streams  in  through  window  R. 

When  the  curtain  rises  SIR  PHILIP  A  COURCY  is  dis- 
covered looking  out  of  the  open  window  R.  He  is 
a  good-looking,  clean-shaven  young  man  of  about 
thirty-two. 

SIR  PHILIP  (shouting  through  window).  Keep  your 
bat  straight  and  keep  your  right  foot  still,  Alan. 
That's  it.  Plant  it  there  and  make  a  resolution  not 
to  move  it.  ...  Keep  your  bat  straight.  .  .  . 

(There    are    boyish    cries    from    outside :    "  Bravo ! 

Middle  Stump.     Hooray  !  ") 

7 


8  THE   FOURTH   ACT. 

(Enter  MR.  ROBERT  VALPAS,  SIR  PHILIP'S  Secretary. 
He  is  a  gentleman  of  about  the  same  age  as  SIR 
PHILIP.) 

ROBERT  (familiarly).  I  say,  Philip,  there's  a  girl 
here,  and  I  can't  get  rid  of  her. 

PHILIP.  Oh  confound  it !  Just  when  I'm  busy 
.  .  .  coaching  the  boys  in  cricket. 

ROBERT.     What  shall  I  say  ? 

PHILIP  (coming  from  window).  That  means  you 
want  me  to  see  her,  eh,  Robert  ? 

ROBERT.  I  should  if  I  were  you.  She's  got  the 
smartest  hat  on  I  ever  saw. 

PHILIP  (sternly).  Private  secretaries  should  have 
eyes  for  the  head  and  not  the  hat.  What  does  srie 
want  ? 

ROBERT.  Won't  say  !  Won't  go.  Dared  me  to 
carry  her  out.  I'd  like  to. 

PHILIP  (frowning).  Robert,  you're  a  perfect  idiot 
with  women. 

ROBERT.  Well,  I  like  that  ...  no  more  than 
you  are  with  cricket. 

PHILIP.     Get  rid  of  her.     (He  returns  to  the  window.) 

(ROBERT  shrugs  his  shoulders  and  goes  out.) 

(PHILIP  now  shouts  further  advice  to  the  boys  outside.) 

(MR.  ROBERT  VALPAS  returns.) 

ROBERT.     Shall  I  send  for  the  police  ? 

PHILIP.  Oh,  confound  it.  Robert,  you're  worse 
than  useless.  Is  she  a  lady  ? 

ROBERT.     Certainly,  I  should  say. 

PHILIP.  Then  she'll  go  if  I  tell  her  to.  Show 
her  in. 

(Exit  ROBERT,  smiling.) 

PHILIP  (talking  through  window).  Pitch  'em  a 
bit  shorter,  Phil.  It's  better  to  be  a  trifle  short 
than  too  well  up.  Here  !  Put  a  shilling  down  and 
try  to  hit  it.  (He  throws  a  shilling  out  of  the  window.) 


THE    FOURTH   ACT.  0 

Now,  don't  fight  for  it.  Split  it  afterwards.  Put 
that  off  stump  straight,  Alan. 

(During  this  ROBERT  shows  in  Miss  DAPHNE  ALLOA. 
DAPHNE  is  a  pretty  woman  of  about  thirty.  Her 
clothes  are  tailor-made  and.  practical,  but  still  very 
smart.  A  rakish  little  fur  hat  gives  a  touch  of 
individuality  to  her  appearance.  ROBERT  carries 
her  attache  case.) 

DAPHNE.  Good  morning  !  .  .  .  (To  ROBERT)  Put 
my  luggage  down. 

(ROBERT  puts  the  case  on  the  desk  and  gazes  admiringly 
into  DAPHNE'S  eyes.) 

PHILIP  (turning).     Mr.  Valpas  ! 
(Exit  ROBERT.) 

DAPHNE.  Don't  scold  him.  He's  been  such  good 
company. 

PHILIP.  Oh,  has  he  ?  Will  you  be  good  enough 
to  say  what  you  want.  I  don't — I  can't  see  people 
without  appointments.  Every  moment  of  my  time 
is  occupied  with— — 

(Boys'  voices — "  Aren't  you  coming  to  play,  Daddy  ?  ") 
(DAPHNE  peeps  round  his  shoulder  at  the  open  window.) 
Ahem  !  Take  a  chair. 

(DAPHNE  sits  in  chair  L.  of  desk.) 

DAPHNE.     Do  you  mind  if  I  make  a  note  ? 

PHILIP.     N — o,  but  I  shall  be  glad  if 

DAPHNE.     Have  you  a  pencil  ? 
PHILIP.     Certainly.    There   it    is.     (He   gives   her 
one.) 


10  THE   FOURTH   ACT. 

DAPHNE.  This  chair  is  uncomfortable.  May  I 
sit  down  there  on  the  couch — just  by  that  dear  little 
table  ?  (She  sits  on  sofa.) 

PHILIP.     If  you  like. 

(DAPHNE  moves  to  L.  end  of  couch.  She  produces 
notebook  from  attache  case  and  places  it  on  the  little 
smoker's  table.  Then  she  makes  a  note.) 

Certainly  !     Make  yourself  at  home. 

(PHILIP  bending  over  attache  case  and  noting  its  con- 
tents). I  knew  it  !  I  knew  it  !  You're  an  actress. 
That  case  contains  the  type-script  of  a  play.  I  know 
'em  a  mile  off.  You're  an  actress,  aren't  you  ? 

DAPHNE.     Indeed  no.     I'm  an  author. 

PHILIP  (despairingly).  An  author !  Worse  and 
worse. 

DAPHNE.  Yes,  Sir  Philip  a  Courcy.  An  author  ! 
Now  you  know  why  I  am  here. 

PHILIP  (gloomily).     I  can  guess. 

DAPHNE.  For  many  months  I  have  been  working 
at  a  play.  I  want  you  to  produce  it. 

PHILIP  (groaning).  Oh  Lord  !  Oh  Lord  !  (Turns 
up  L.C.) 

DAPHNE.  But  you  produce  so  many.  Everybody 
knows  you  are  behind  the  Archbishop's  Theatre  and 
they  say  you  have  a  share — 

PHILIP.  Please  !  Please  !  Please  !  .  .  .  In  the 
first  place  what  is  your  name  ? 

DAPHNE.     Daphne  Alloa. 

PHILIP.  Daphne  Alloa !  (L.C.)  You've  never 
written  anything  before  in  your  life,  have  you  ? 

(DAPHNE  shakes  her  head.) 

Of  course  not.      Suddenly  you  read  a  fatuous  para- 
graph in  a  paper  that  a  play  might  be  worth  £100,000  ! 
DAPHNE.     So  I  did. 


THE   FOURTH   ACT.  11 

PHILIP.  Of  course  you  did.  You  immediately 
get  an  idea.  You  tell  a  friend  about  it,  a  literary 
friend,  perhaps. 

DAPHNE.  She  is.  She  has  had  a  poem  accepted 
by  royalty. 

PHILIP.  I  knew  it.  This  friend  encourages  you, 
heaven  forgive  her.  You  write  your  play  and  it's 
generally  a  farrago  of  nonsense  composed  of  what  you 
remember  of  "  Charley's  Aunt,"  "  The  Sign  of  the 
Cross,"  "The  Belle  of  New  York,"  and  the  Drury 
Lane  Pantomime.  You  hawk  it  round  the  mana- 
gers— 

DAPHNE.     I  didn't  hawk.     I  couldn't  hawk. 

PHILIP.  Well,  you  offer  it  anyway.  No  one  will 
produce  it.  So  you  sob  your  heart  out  and  try  and 
get  a  job  as  a  dramatic  critic — to  get  your  own  back. 

DAPHNE  (meekly}.     And  are  all  beginners  the  same. 

PHILIP.  We]l,  you're  something  of  an  exception. 
You're  the  first  author  that  ever  got  into  this  room 
without  an  introduction.  .  .  .  Now,  Miss  Alloa,  1 
can't  produce  your  play.  I  can't.  I  won't.  I 

can't.  I  w Oh  !  if  only  you  knew  how  I'm 

pestered.  (Down  L.) 

DAPHNE.  But  don't  you  like  it  ?  You're  a 
multi-millionaire,  passionately  devoted  to  the  arts. 

PHILIP.  Passionately  devoted  to  fiddlesticks.  I 
detest  the  theatre  and  all  its  works. 

DAPHNE.  You  detest  the  theatre  !  Then  how  on 
earth  does  it  happen — 

PHILIP.  I  support  the  theatre  because  I  can't 
help  myself.  It's  a  family  curse. 

DAPHNE.     A  family  curse  ! 

PHILIP.  Yes.  The  first  folio  of  Shakespeare  was 
dedicated  to  one  of  my  ancestors.  (PHILIP  L.C.  by 
small  table.)  Ever  since  then  the  family  has  been 
quite  mad  about  the  drama.  I  inherited  millions 
certainly,  but  a  big  share  of  it  is  tantamount  to  a 
trust  fund  which  must  be  used  for  theatrical  enter- 
prises. Every  decade,  for  instanqe,  I'm  practically 


12  THE   FOURTH   ACT. 

committed  to  presenting  Shakespeare  in  a  new  way. 
I'm  an  impresario  against  my  will,  I  tell  you. 

DAPHNE.  It  must  be  very  hard,  certainly,  to  have 
to  spend  so  much  money  on  what  you  don't  like. 

PHILIP.  Now  if  it  were  the  music-hall  profession, 
I'd  enjoy  it.  I  adore  a  good  music-hall  show,  don't 
you  ?  No  humbugging  art  about  it.  It's  real, 
it's  actual,  it's  satisfying. 

DAPHNE.  Lockhart's  Elephants  and  Karno's 
Mumming  Birds,  and  all  that. 

PHILIP.  Precisely.  Not  forgetting  "  Boiled  Beef 
and  Carrots." 

DAPHNE.  But  surely  there  are  some  plays  that 
are  real  and  actual  and  satisfying.  I'm  sure  mine 
is. 

PHILIP.  Dear  me,  yes.  I  was  forgetting  about 
your  play.  What's  it  about  ? 

DAPHNE  .     Myself. 

PHILIP.  Oh— h !  That's—that's—well,  that's 
different. 

I     DAPHNE.    Every  one  can  write  one  play  or  one 
book. 

PHILIP.    Oh,  I've  heard  that  so  often. 

DAPHNE.  It's  truer  than  you  think.  Well,  my 
play  is  in  four  acts.  (She  takes  out  script.) 

PHILIP.     But  there  are  only  three  there. 

DAPHNE.  Exactly.  The  fourth  remains  to  be 
written. 

PHILIP.     Indeed. 

DAPHNE.     I'm  going  to  write  it  here. 

PHILIP.     My  dear  lady,  I  really  must  ask  you • 

DAPHNE.  First,  with  your  permission,  I  want  to 
make  a  sketch  map  of  the  room,  what  is  called  a 
scene  plot,  I  believe. 

PHILIP.     But  I  tell  you  that  my  time (Boyish 

voices  are  heard  calling  from  off  R.,  "  Dad  !     Dad  !  ") 

PHILIP  (going  to  window).  I'll  come  out  in  a  few 
minutes. 

(He  closes  window.) 


THE   FOURTH   ACT.  13 

DAPHNE  (going  to  window  and  looking  out).  Are 
those  your  boys  ? 

PHILIP.    Yes. 

DAPHNE.     You're  a  widower,  aren't  you  ? 

PHILIP.     Yes. 

DAPHNE.  Curious.  You're  a  widower  with  two 
boys  and  I'm  a  widow  with  two  girls.  Look  !  (She 
produces  a  locket.)  There  are  my  two  girls. 

PHILIP  (diffidently).     Very  charming. 

DAPHNE.  Their  names  are  Daphne  and  Ursula. 
The  one  on  the  right  is  Ursula. 

PHILIP.     Quite  so. 

DAPHNE.    And  the  one  on  the  left  is  Daphne. 

PHILIP.     Quite  so. 

DAPHNE.  But  we  must  get  on  with  our  work, 
mustn't  we  ? 

PHILIP.    Our  work  ! 

DAPHNE.  Oh  yes.  I  know  you'll  help.  Let  me 
see.  Window  up  R.  (she  makes  notes),  door  in  back 
hall,  slightly  L.  Large  writing-desk  c.  with  revolving 
chair.  Below  desk  a  comfortable  couch.  Room  for — • 
sit  beside  me,  will  you  ?  Just  room  for  two. 

(She  rises  and  he  after  her.) 

Smoker's  table  to  L.  of  sofa.  (She  returns  to  steps  and 
sits  on  them.)  It  is  a  bright  summer  morning.  When 
the  curtain  rises  Sir  Philip  a  Courcy  is  discovered. 
He  is  a  good-looking — 

PHILIP.     Thank  you  ! 

DAPHNE.    Clean-shaven 


(PHILIP  feels  his  chin.) 

— bright-eyed  young  man  of  thirty — er — thirty-three. 

PHILIP.  .  Thirty-two. 

DAPHNE.  Thank  you,  thirty-two.  Just  a  little 
opening  talk  with  the  secretary  and  then  I  come  on. 
Where  were  you  standing  ? 


14  THE   FOURTH   ACT. 

PHILIP.     Oh,  bother  it.     Does  that  matter  ? 
DAPHNE.     A  little.     Stand  at  your  desk,  will  you  ? 

(She  guides  him  to  a  position  above  the  writing-table.) 

Then  I  come  on  impetuously.  Like  this.  Suddenly 
I  stop,  and  I'm  frozen  to  the  spot. 

PHILIP.  What  !  On  a  morning  like  this  ?  Be- 
sides, you  weren't. 

DAPHNE.  No.  But  I  ought  to  be.  It's  the  way 
things  happen  in  plays.  I  should  be  frozen  to  the 
spot— and  then  I  should  melt  into  your  arms. 

PHILIP.'    Madam ! 

DAPHNE.  Yes.  But  then  I  ought  to  have  known 
you  before.  Watch  how  I  would  do  it.  I  would 
come  in — so.  I  would  freeze  to  the  spot — so.  And 
then  I  would  exclaim  with  a  genuine  air  of  astonish- 
ment— "  So  it  is  you  !  " 

PHILIP.     Of  course  it's  me — I  mean  I. 

DAPHNE.  Ah,  but  you  ought  to  be  something 
out  of  my  past.  You  should  be  the  man  who  robbed 
me  of  my  fortune  or  something  like  that.  You 
should  have  promised  to  marry  me  and  deserted  me 
for  an  heiress.  I  suppose  you  never  did  jilt  me,  did 
you  ? 

PHILIP.     Certainly  not. 

(DAPHNE  makes  a  note.) 

DAPHNE.  No.  I'm  afraid  I've  never  seen  you 
before  in  my  life. 

PHILIP.     You  have  not. 

(DAPHNE  makes  a  note.) 

And  I'm  busy. 

DAPHNE  (wistfully).  Ah,  don't  say  that  again. 
I'm  not  really  joking — or  rather  I'm  joking  to  make 
the  interview  pleasant  for  you.  If  I  were  tragic  you 
wouldn't  like  me.  And  yet  it  is  true  that  I  and  my 


THE   FOURTH   ACT.  15 

little  girls  are  very  nearly  at  the  end  of  our  bread 
money.  .  .  .  Ah,  don't  curl  your  nice  mouth.  I  like 
you  severe — better  than  sympathetic.  And  you 
know  you  agreed  to  help  me  with  the  play. 

PHILIP.  If  you  are  telling  me  the  truth — about 
your  financial  position — don't  bother  any  more  about 
the  play.  Let  me  give  you  an  introduction  to — 

DAPHNE  (still  taking  notes).  You  ought  to  move 
about  more.  On  the  stage  the  characters  have  to 
keep  making  crosses.  They  don't  sit  still  all  through 
an  interview.  Do  you  mind  walking  away  some- 
where and  coming  back. 

PHILIP  (stamping  petulantly  up  the  window).  This 
is  really  very  ridiculous. 

DAPHNE.  Thank  you  so  much.  "  Petulantly 
stamping  up  R."  (She  makes  a  note.) 

PHILIP.     What  are  you  writing  down  there  ? 

DAPHNE.     Everything  you  say  or  do. 

PHILIP.  Are  you  a  newspaper  woman — or  a 
private  detective — or  a— 

DAPHNE  (busily  writing).  Splendid !  Splendid ! 
That  was  almost  dramatic. 

PHILIP.     Why  are  you  writing  this  down  ? 

DAPHNE.  Because  this  is  the  fourth  act.  Every- 
thing we  say  makes  up  the  dialogue. 

PHILIP.     Miss  Alloa,  I  ask  you  again  to  go. 

(He  picks  up  her  hat  and  hurts  finger  on  pin)  "  Damn  !" 

DAPHNE.  Quite  right.  You  must,  you  must 
ask  me  again  and  again,  or  the  fourth  act  won't  be 
long  enough.  Ah,  don't  get  really  angry.  Don't 
you  see  that  like  the  nice,  kind  man  you  are,  you  are 
giving  me  everything  I  want. 

PHILIP.     Thank  goodness  for  that. 

DAPHNE.  My  play  is  about  a  girl  who  wrote  a 
play — about  me.  The  first  three  acts  tell  the  story 
of  how  I  came  to  write  that  play  and  what  happened 
when  I  took  it  to  the  managers.  Every  word  of  it  is 
true. 


16  THE    FOURTH   ACT. 

PHILIP.    Then  what's  the  trouble  ? 

DAPHNE  .Because  the  managers  won't  produce  it. 
How  can  they — without  a  happy  ending. 

PHILIP.     Can't  you  make  a  happy  ending  ? 
.  DAPHNE.     No.     But  you  can. 

PHILIP.  I  see.  If  I  say  that  I  will  finance  the 
play,  you'll  write  that  down  and  bring  down  the 
curtain  on  it. 

DAPHNE.     How  quick  you  are  ! 

PHILIP.  And  the  corollary  is  that  I  throw  away 
some  thousands  of  pounds. 

DAPHNE.  And  the  cor-r-  (writing).  Please  spell 
corollary. 

PHILIP   (forgetting  himself).     C-o-r Oh,  hang 

it,  spell  it  yourself. 

DAPHNE.  That's  right.  Be  brusque  and  rough. 
Bully  me.  And  then  melt.  Come  up  to  me  and 
smack  the  open  palm  of  your  left  hand  with  your 
clenched  right  and  say 

(There  is  a  crash  from  off  R.) 

Whatever   was   that  ? 

PHILIP.  One  of  my  boys  fallen  into  a  cucumber- 
frame  .  .  .  (He  goes  up  R.) 

(He  goes  to  window  and  DAPHNE,  after  putting  down 
her  notebook  on  top  of  steps,  follows  him.) 

DAPHNE  (looking  out  at  the  boys).  Aren't — they — • 
just — lovely  ? 

PHILIP  (pleased).  Like  their  father,  don't  you 
think  ! 

DAPHNE.     How  old  are  they  ? 

PHILIP.  Well,  Philip's  eight,  yes,  eight  and  two 
months.  Alan's  a  few  days  short  of  seven. 

DAPHNE.  Eight  and  seven  !  Why,  I  should  have 
said  at  least  twelve  and  ten. 

PHILIP  (pleased).     Would  you  ? 


THE    FOURTH   ACT.  17 

DAPHNE.  Rath-er  !  How  lucky  you  are  to  have 
boys.  My  little  girls  are  dears — but  it's  not  quite  the 
same  thing,  is  it  ? 

PHILIP.     Well,  there's  a -difference. 

DAPHNE  (softly).  When — when  did  their  mother 
die,  Sir  Philip  ? 

PHILIP.    When  Alan  was  "born. 

DAPHNE.  Ah  ...  (she  stands  watching  at  the 
window) . 

(PHILIP  comes  down  to  desk.) 

Stand  back  to  them  dear.     (She  pulls  open  window.) 
You'll  get  hit  on  the  knuckles  every  time  if  you  play 
forward  to  that  sort  of  ball.     Stand  back  and  lift 
your  bat  high.     Ah  !     That's  better. 
BOYS.     Right  O  !     Ha  !  ha  ! 

(There  is  a  burst  of  boyish  laughter.     PHILIP  gazes  at 
her  in  amazement.) 

PHILIP.     What  you  do  know  about  cricket  ? 

DAPHNE.  As  much  as  most  men.  (She  shuts 
window.)  I'd  love  to  go  down  and  play  with  them. 
May  I? 

PHILIP.  You  want  to  go  down  there  !  But  what 
about  the  fourth  act  ? 

DAPHNE.  Yes,  but  I  was  beginning  to  despair  of 
your  helping  me. 

PHILIP.     Look  here,  I'll — I'll  do  what  I  can. 

DAPHNE  (genuinely  surprised  and  grateful).  You 
— will !  How  splendid  of  you. 

PHILIP.  Not  at  all.  You're  as  irresistible  as  my 
secretary  said  you  were.  He's  a  bit  of  an  ass,  but  he 
was  right  this  time.  Sit  down. 

DAPHNE.     Shall  I  ?     Where  ? 

PHILIP.  Here :  on  this  sofa  (she  sits  and  he 
sits  beside  her),  where  there  is  just  room  for  two. 
Tell  me  about  the  play.  Is  there  any  love  interest 
in  it  ? 


18  THE   FOURTH   ACT. 

DAPHNE.  Ye-es.  But  not  for  the  principal 
character. 

PHILIP.     And  the  principal  character  is  you  ? 

DAPHNE.     M'm. 

PHILIP.     Designing  widow,  aren't  you  ? 

DAPHNE.  Well,  yes.  But  in  the  nicest  possible 
sense. 

PHILIP.  Oh  yes,  of  course.  Do  you  think  that 
the  play  has  a  dog's  chance  without  some  love  interest 
for  the  heroine  ? 

DAPHNE.  It  would  be  better,  I  admit.  But  you 
see  every  line  of  the  play  is  true.  And  I  can't  invent 
a  lover  for  myself. 

PHILIP.  Supposing  I  were  to  invent  one  for  you. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I  admit  I'm  getting  interested.  You  seem 
a  clinking  good  sort.  Can  you  bowl  ? 

DAPHNE.     Yes.     Quite  a  decent  leg  break. 

PHILIP  (almost  fervently) .  A  decent  leg  break  ? 
Yes,  I'm  sure  of  it.  Well,  it  would  be  quite  easy  to 
make  love  to  you  for  the  purposes  of  your  play. 

DAPHNE.     I'd  hate  you  to  put  yourself  out. 

PHILIP.  Not  at  all.  I'm  really  disengaged  till 
twelve.  You'll  want  the  notebook. 

DAPHNE.  Yes.  (She  rises.)  But  still — if  you 
don't  feel  like  it — it  won't  be  much  use  to  me. 

PHILIP.  I  can  be  desperately  in  earnest  for  the 
time  being.  You  aren't  the  only  pretty  widow  in  the 
world. 

DAPHNE  (picking  notebook  from  desk).  No.  I 
dare  say  you're  in  practice.  Begin. 

PHILIP.     Sit  here.     (He  indicates  couch.) 

DAPHNE  (meekly).     I  will. 

PHILIP    (rising   and    clearing    his    throat).      Now 

we'll  begin.     Do  you — do  you Don't  look  at 

me  ! 

DAPHNE.    No  ? 

PHILIP.  You  should  realize  what  is  coming  and 
look  away.  Make  patterns  on  the  carpet  with  your 
toe. 


THE   FOURTH   ACT  19 

DAPHNE  (slightly  raising  her  skirt  and  scraping  the 
floor  with  the  tip  of  a  pretty  shoe) .  Like  that  ? 

PHILIP.  Yes.  (He  comes  closer.)  Just  like  that. 
You're  writing  something  on  the  carpet.  What  is  it  ? 

DAPHNE.     "  Yours  truly,  Daphne  Alloa." 

PHILIP.  You're  the  most  adorable  woman  I've 
seen  in  my  life. 

DAPHNE  (writing  in  her  book).  "  You're  the  most 
adorable  woman  I've  seen  in  my  life."  Do  you 
really  think  so,  Philip  ? 

PHILIP.     Yes,  dear. 

DAPHNE  (making  note).     "Yes,  dear." 

PHILIP.  That's  good  .  .  .  "  dear  !  "  don't  you 
think  ?  I  feel  so  at  home  with  your  eyes.  Some 
widows'  eyes  make  you  feel  as  if  you're  out  for  the 
night. 

(Both  repeat  the  last  sentence.) 

DAPHNE  (writing).  It's  a  risky  line.  Do  you  think 
\  I  ought  to  put  it  in  ? 

PHILIP.  Oh  yes.  The  censor  '11  cut  it  out.  And 
then  you  wear  your  clothes  so  cosily.  You  make  a 
sort  of  chrysalis  of  them. 

DAPHNE  (making  a  note) .  You  dear  !  No  necessity 
to  write  your  dialogue.  I  shall  remember  every  word 
of  it. 

PHILIP.     You're  so  cousinly  and  all  that. 

DAPHNE.  Whatever  "  that  "  may  be.  (Making  a 
note.) 

PHILIP  You're  the  sort  of  girl  who  comes  on 
Sunday  afternoon  and  stays  for  ever. 

DAPHNE.     M'm.     A  sort  of  spare- room  girl ! 

PHILIP.  A  sort  of  mistletoe  girl,  a  sort  of  taxi-cab 
girl,  a  sort  of  sit-out-the-next-foxtrot  girl. 

DAPHNE.  Next-foxtrot  girl !  Philip,  you've  got 
me  set.  Now  you  ought  to  propose. 

PHILIP.    Already ! 

DAPHNE.  Unless  you  think  it  would  come  as  a 
shock  to  me. 


20  THE  FOURTH   ACT 

PHILIP.    Very  well. 

DAPHNE.     One  minute. 

PHILIP.     What  is  it  ? 

DAPHNE.  I  must  turn  away  and  make  patterns 
with  my  toe.  (She  lifts  her  skirt  and  writes  on  the 
carpet  again.) 

PHILIP.     What  do  you  write  this  time  ? 

DAPHNE.     "  Yours  truly,  Daphne  a  Courcy." 

PHILIP.  .  .  .  Miss  Alloa — Daphne 

(DAPHNE  writes.} 

I'm  sick  of  not  being  engaged,  aren't  you  ? 

DAPHNE.     Oh  dear,  this  is  realism  ! 

PHILIP.     What  would  you  have  me  say  ? 

DAPHNE.     Well,  I  thought  you'd  begin  like  this. 

Intoxicated  by  your  maddening  beauty  and 
thrilled  by  the  evidences  of  your  sublime  intellect — 

PHILIP.     I  hate  intellect. 

DAPHNE.  — I  offer  you  my  heart,  my  name  and 
my  fortune.  As  for  your  play,  I  will  arrange  for  its 
sumultaneous  production  in  five  capitals,  and — 
and  will  you  stop  to  lunch  ?  " 

PHILIP.     That's   your   idea   of   a   happy   ending  ! 

DAPHNE.     Yes.     And,   after  all,  I'm  the*  author. 

PHILIP.  Well,  put  it  that  way  if  you  like.  What  is 
your  answer  ? 

DAPHNE.    My  answer  is  yes.    Now  you  kiss  me. 

(He  hesitates  a  little.) 

DAPHNE.    Only  a  stage  kiss. 

PHILIP.    What  sort's  that  ? 

DAPHNE.    You  all  but  do  it,  but  you  don't. 

(PHILIP  puts  knee  on  sofa  and  leans  over  her.) 

PHILIP.     How's  this  ?     (He  bends  over  her  and  kisses 
her.) 
DAPHNE.    Thank  you.     (She  writes)   "He  kisses 


THE    FGUKTK   ACT  21 

her."  And,  now  again.  (He  kisses  her.)  Thank 
you.  (She  writes.)  "He  kisses  her  again." 

DAPHNE.     It  doesn't  seem  right  somehow. 

PHILIP.     Doesn't  it.     Seemed  all  right  to  me. 

DAPHNE.  No.  Stage  directions  always  say,  "  He 
snatches  her  to  him."  Can  you  snatch  ? 

PHILIP.    No,  but  I  can  try. 

DAPHNE.  Well,  I'll  show  you  how  it's  done  and 
then  you  can  snatch  me. 

(She  throws  her  arms  around  him  and  kisses  him.) 

Like  that. 

PHILIP.  I  don't  think  much  of  that — you  bumped 

my  nose.  I  can  snatch  better  than  that.  How's 
this?  ... 

(He  makes  a  grab  at  her  and  presses  her  to  him.) 

DAPHNE.     You  are  very  quick  to  learn  ! 

PHILIP.  Oh.  It's  just  a  knack,  just  a  knack 
airily). 

DAPHNE.     I  hope  that's  all  it  is. 

PHILIP  (swinging  himself  about).     I  like  this  act. 

DAPHNE.     I  knew  you  would. 

PHILIF.    Let's  go  on  with  it. 

DAPHNE.     But  a  kiss  is  an  ending. 

PHILIP.     Nonsense.     It's  a  beginning. 

DAPHNE.     I  think  you  might  say  something  more. 

PHILIP.     I'll  whisper  it.     (He  whispers  in  her  ear.) 

DAPHNE    (laughing).     I    must    write    that    down. 

PHILIP.    Wha-a-t  ? 

DAPHNE.  It  can  come  after  the  curtain's  fallen 
if  you  like. 

PHILIP.  But  when  the  curtain  falls  that  is  the 
end  of  the  play. 

DAPHNE.  Yes — indeed.  And,  now  that  the  act 
is  finished  (she  draws  a  line  in  her  notebook),  we 
must  not  pretend  any  more. 

PHILIP.     Oh,  Lord,  yes.     I  was  pretending,  wasn't 


22  THE   FOURTH   ACT 

I  ?     Well,  I'm  quite  willing  to  be  serious  after  the 
curtain  has  fallen. 

DAPHNE.    To  be  serious. 

PHILIP.     I  mean — to  be  sincere. 

(He  places  his  hand  on  DAPHNE'S.) 

DAPHNE.  Philip  !  (She  catches  her  breath  as  his 
meaning  dawns  upon  her.)  Let's  pretend  the  curtain's 
down  now. 

PHILIP.     Better  than  that.     We'll  have  it  down. 

(He  comes  to  prompt  corner.) 

Do  you  mind  letting  down  the  curtain,  please  ? 
VOICE  FROM  PROMPT  CORNER.     Certainly,  sir. 

(PHILIP  takes  DAPHNE'S  left  hand  in  his  right  and  they 
wait  while  the  curtain  falls.  When  the  curtain 
rises  they  are  seen  in  close  embrace.  When  they 
realize  the  curtain  is  up  they  break  the  embrace  and 
pretend  to  be  concerned  with  other  things.) 


Butler  &  Tanner  Frome  and  London 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
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221923 
SEP  17  1920 


APR 


50m-7,'16 


